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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28894110">What does the “K” in “TK” stand for, anyway?</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Readaholics_Anonymous/pseuds/Readaholics_Anonymous'>Readaholics_Anonymous</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Deconstruction, Din Djarin Needs a Hug, Gen, Original Character(s), Star Wars - Freeform, Stormtrooper Culture (Star Wars), Stormtrooper POV, The Mandalorian (TV) Season 2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 09:27:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,227</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28894110</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Readaholics_Anonymous/pseuds/Readaholics_Anonymous</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> They take off the Mandalorian's helmet.</i>
  <br/>
</p><p>Chapter 16 AU and deconstruction, where the Empire is actually competent, the Stromtroopers have complexity, and the rescue does not go as planned...</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Din Djarin &amp; Grogu | Baby Yoda</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Noromo Mando: Mandalorian Genfics Collection</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Empire Wants YOU!</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>'It's like poetry, it rhymes.'</p><p>- George Lucas</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Atten-tion!”</p><p>The holoscreen above your head flickers to life. </p><p>“Sa-lute!”</p><p>Loud, brassy fanfare booms over the speakers as a distinguished baritone voice announces: <em> “4 million brave souls met a fiery demise when the Death Stars were destroyed by Rebel terrorists—" </em></p><p>"How do they eat, then?” The guy behind you whispers. </p><p>“What?” His friend whispers back. </p><p>“The Mandos." The ensign continues—way too loudly. "If they can’t take their buckets off, how do they eat?” </p><p>“They don't, ‘cause they're droids.”</p><p>You better shut them up before the C.O. notices—otherwise it’s write-ups for <em> everyone</em>. Faster than you can say ‘collective punishment.’</p><p>
  <em> "Never forget the sacrifice of your brave comrades! Never forget the treachery of the New Republic!" </em>
</p><p>Breaking salute is out of the question. You resort to some passive-aggressive throat clearing and hope they catch the hint. It misses them by a whole parsec. </p><p>“Um, actually, they’re human—I read an article on them—" damn it, now it's <em> contagious.  </em></p><p>"Ya hear that? He read an <em> article </em>—"</p><p>"—and they <em> can </em> take their helmets off. They just can’t show their faces.“</p><p>“Isn’t that the same thing?”</p><p>It's too early for this shit. You just pulled three consecutive late shifts, your neck hurts because you slept on it wrong, and to top it off—the caff machine is broken. You wait for a particularly loud swell of trumpeting and hiss: <em> "Shut the hell up." </em></p><p>The effect is instantaneous—being six feet tall and half as wide has it's uses. It's a shame, all you seem to do nowadays is throw your weight around. Reminds you too much of the last SPC—he was a real piece of work. Everyone was relieved when he got transferred to Navarro about five months back—in fact, that's how you got this promotion. You're worried that's all they'll see in you; just another Heavy with a big gun, eager to bulldoze the greenhorns. </p><p>
  <em> "Long live the Empire! Death to the Rebels!”  </em>
</p><p><em> “Long live the Empire!” </em> Three hundred voices shout in unison. <em> “Death to the Rebels!” </em></p><p>The Imperial March slowly fades out and the screen goes blank. </p><p>“At ease, men.” The C.O. commands.</p><p>You drop your salute and relax back into parade rest, resisting the urge to roll your neck. </p><p>"Well,<em> I </em> heard if they take their helmets off— <em> they die." </em></p><p>
  <em> Oh for God's sake. </em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The morning announcement always leaves you feeling vaguely guilty afterwards. To be honest, you’re not much of a patriot. Sure, you believe in the cause as much as the next Trooper, but when it comes down to it, you’re a simple man with simple needs. You have your wife back at home, who’s been holding the fort for the past four years, so with two kids to raise, future university to pay for, and the minimum wage still wallowing at 25,000 credits a year, you need the steady employment. All that high-minded stuff about returning things to the “natural order” pretty much goes over your head.</p><p>For the past 14 hours, the Lightcruiser has been swarming with activity, in preparation for a skirmish against the Mandalorian terrorist Din Djarin. (You’re not holding out on too much hope for the caff-machine getting fixed any time soon). </p><p>Like everyone else, your knowledge on Mandalorians amounts to a ragged patchwork of hear-say and hyperbole. As much as you consider yourself a well-travelled man (one of the perks of being Imperial), the universe is extremely large, and if there’s one thing this economy’s not short on, it’s weirdos. </p><p>The Mandos are reputed to be the best warriors in the galaxy—which is impressive, given that there's so few of them <em> left </em>. And this one isn't helping their track record.  Especially after sending Moff Gideon that little message:<em> '</em><em>Your days are numbered, prepare to feel my wrath, blah blah blah.'</em> It <em> literally </em> phoned ahead and announced its intentions to attack the base like some spotty kid on a date. <em> Completely </em> ruined the element of surprise. Now, you may just be a regular grunt, but that’s pretty kriffing stupid by anyone’s standards.</p><p>No matter. All the better for you guys. As they say, the only thing better than a great ally is a stupid fuckin' foe. </p><p>You try not to think about it too much, because even with the trickle-down, second-hand intel, you can sense an edge of frenzy behind this stupidity. And you don’t like that at all. </p><p>
  <em>("The asset is a child. It travels with a Mandalorian bounty hunter.”)</em>
</p><p>So you don’t think about it. </p><p>
  <em>(Tress went missing by Lake Dahu when she was three. She couldn’t swim. You were stupid with fear. You screamed at Dosey for not looking after her. God, you’re so ashamed. The boy was only six, what could he have done? It was your fault, all your fault.)</em>
</p><p>You’re not paid to think.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Here’s one thing the holo-films never get right about war. It’s boring. Mind-numbingly so. Every burst of action is preceded by hundreds of hours of preparation, the Hurry Up and Wait, the <em>briefing</em>. (Dear God, that’s an oxymoron if you’ve ever heard it.) You are briefed going in and you are debriefed coming out. The first and last thing you do before every fight is stand in the corridor/hanger/doorway in full gear, waiting until your feet go numb. </p><p>Lieutenant Mace finishes his usual puffed-up spiel and Sergeant Auger takes over, to everyone’s great relief. The Sarge is a granite statue that learnt to walk through sheer force of will. She can drown out a foghorn and recite the Articles of War like a sonnet.</p><p>Here is the jist of it: the Mando will be walking straight into a trap. The 601st will feign a retreat, lure the terrorists deep into the ship, and then join the 701st and 650th to keep them pinned down until the Prototype can finish them off. The Prototype is some kind of secret weapon developed using the Asset. That’s all you’ve managed to puzzle out from the piecemeal info. </p><p>
  <em> (‘It looks like two ears sticking out of a burlap sack’ is your first thought. ‘It’s tiny’ is your second.   </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “This creature may look weak and harmless.” The Moff paused coolly, seemingly in anticipation of a reply, as if anyone with even half a brain would dare speak up right now. “However, I can assure you, it is anything but.” He makes a sharp gesture with one gloved hand.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The two Stormtroopers who had been ordered to bring the Asset to him look slightly more nervous than before, but jump to obey—is that Frank? Oh no, what did the poor bastard do this time—  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Frank suddenly threw himself at the wall.   </em>
</p><p><em> No. He didn’t throw himself, he was thrown —) </em> </p><p>So, that little green thing had the same powers as the legendary Darth Vader. You always thought the rumours were a hoax, conjured up by overworked spice-huffers trying to lessen the monotony. Hell, you still wouldn't have believed it if you hadn't seen it with your own two eyes. That frail, unassuming creature picked up two grown men and knocked them around like a capricious toddler’s action figures. The thought should scare you. And it does. But in your recollection, you can’t stop seeing the Asset’s shivering little body and Frank’s advancing form towering over it. Something about the picture is all wrong now, like one of those optical illusions that are both frog and bunnycorn, one is invisible until you see it and hard to unsee it once you do. </p><p>You shake your head, as if errant thoughts were fleas and very deliberately narrow the focus of your mind. What is the Prototype—and who’s going to be manning it? The other Heavies haven’t seen it either, so that probably rules out a new gun or cannon. </p><p>Whatever it is, it eats up a lot of kriffing power. It’s been kept at a very costly standby. For the past 7 hours, dorm lights had been reduced to 30% and the sonic no longer has any hot water. Hellova way to wake up, that’s for sure.  </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The minute your shift ends, you make a beeline for the dorms, hoping to catch some shut eye before dinner. </p><p>Lucky and Dave are already in their respective bunks, headlamps switched on to fight the gloom. Dave is half-heartedly flipping through a month-old bike rag, while Lucky meticulously polishes his already-spotless blaster, gun oil suffusing with the ever-present aroma of sweaty socks. </p><p>"Filled in your TPS reports yet?" You nod pointedly at the discarded datapad. </p><p>Dave frowns. "They're not due until tomorrow." </p><p>"Better make it tonight—Mace is on a rampage. <em> Again. </em>" </p><p>"No rest for the wicked, eh Jorge?" </p><p>Below him, Lucky is bouncing slightly in his bunk, evidently itching to tell you something. There goes your chance of <em> resting.</em> Lucky has a face straight-out of a recruitment holo (The Empire Wants YOU!) with his bright blond hair and dim but well-meaning smile. Talking to him has all the effects of a swamp fever, leaving you exhausted and desperately thirsty. His real name is <em>Luke</em>, a very unsightly coincidence that he covers up like a zit. </p><p>“D'you think it’s the real Boba Fett?” Lucky asks. He raises the blaster with a grin and squints down the sights. </p><p>Are they getting younger and younger these days? Or are you just getting old?</p><p>“…Who?” </p><p>“The other Mando! The famous bounty hunter! Jon from comms—you know Jon, right? Great guy—he showed me the footage. I wasn’t assigned there. I just snuck in—don’t tell anyone, OK?"</p><p>A dull throbbing is growing behind your eyeballs. “You did <em>what?” </em></p><p>“I saw that too!” Dave broke in from above. “Damn, what a fight! I wish I coulda seen the whole thing. We were just starting to get the upper hand—”</p><p>
  <em>“Does the word ‘canned’ mean nothing to you idiots?”  </em>
</p><p>“—But I think it’s just someone else wearing his armour, ‘cause he got eaten by a sarlacc, like, six years ago, so like, I don’t think he suddenly got bored and climbed out—"</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><hr/><p> </p><p>For security reasons, the dorms are never completely dark. You count the vent holes in the ceiling as you wait for sleep to claim you. </p><p>
  <em> (This was Dosey’s third day at boarding school. You got a call from the headmaster in the middle of the night. Scared the hell out of you. But turns out he was just homesick. You couldn't even get mad at him, hearing him sniffing through the receiver like that. “Da, come pick me up...please.” He stopped crying the moment you pulled up in the hovercar. You must have looked like such an ass in your bathrobe—) </em>
</p><p>The Asset is kept in a soundproof cell. You heard nothing at all during your entire shift, and you did not look though the reinforced transparisteel porthole. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The transport ship arrived at 0500 in the morning, with 78 new heads as reinforcement. Time being relative in the black vacuum of space, mornings just mean shaving before your daily allocation of Mystery Mush. </p><p>“<em>All that </em> for a handful of terrorists?” Dave remarks around the buzzing of his razor. “This has gotta be the overreaction of the century.” </p><p>“Well...” Lucky likes loitering around the sink to feel included. “I heard the Mando did quite a number on Nevarro. Rumour has it, the Nite Owls are with ‘em now. Makes you wonder how come Mando wants the baby—I mean <em> the Asset </em>—so bad. Is it valuable?" </p><p>You can see them shooting curious glances at you in the mirror. You are the only one senior enough to get guard duty. <em>“I don’t know.”</em> </p><p>Lucky flinches. Good. They can both shut up and take a damn hike. God, you’re not cut out for this job. You’re not special forces. You’re just a regular grunt. If the Moff weren't so short on men, you wouldn’t be anywhere near such a sensitive subject. A haggard face stares back accusingly from the mirror. You managed six hours with the aid of a sleeping pill, but you don’t feel rested at all. <em> (The Asset’s eyes were brown, too big for its wrinkled little face. They seemed to stare right at you through the helmet’s visor.) </em></p><p><em>‘Protect And Serve’</em> goes the mantra. Your duty is clear: you serve the Empire; you protect your fellow Troopers. <em> (Frank doesn’t look like Frank when he’s armoured and helmeted. His twitchy finger on his blaster. The Asset trembles in his shadow—) </em></p><p><em>Fuck.</em> You’ve nicked yourself. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Drills and hard labour have a way of hammering even the most unruly thoughts into a smooth, frictionless plane. The rest of the day passes quickly and uneventfully. </p><p>The excitement of seeing new faces after six months in space has worn thin by fifth bell. It’s also the fifth time today you’ve had to show someone where the ‘fresher was. (Two were from the same person). You’re starting to wonder if there’s something about your face that invites stupid questions.  </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“ID?”</p><p>“TK 77-19, I’m taking TK 02-50 to the broom closet.”</p><p>The Petty stops in the middle of scanning your chip and stares at the Trooper beside you. <em> “250? </em> You were on <em> Endor </em>?”</p><p><em> “Yesssir,” </em> 250 rasps drily. His salute is not as crisp as you'd like, but at least he has the presence of mind to <em> finally </em>stop chewing baccy under his damn bucket. (It’s impossible to maintain a smoking habit on a spaceship, for obvious reasons). “Early in line, I was. Look where it got me.”</p><p>The Petty is either impressed enough or simply doesn’t hear. “Good man.” </p><p>“Likewise, sir.” </p><p>The motion detector lights of the “broom closet” activate when you walk through, revealing racks upon racks of guns, they stand wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling, neater than the Dewey Decimal System. The automated shelves part with a quiet whirring. </p><p>250 laughs in a burst of static. “All that, but no one can refill the soap in the ‘fresher?” He takes the lead, strolling through the racks like a curator in a gallery. “So...You got a special someone, Jorge?”</p><p>It takes you a second to understand he meant the<em> guns</em>. “I’m not partial.” </p><p><em>‘Partial?’  </em>Why the hell did you say that? You sound like a ponce. In the army, you wear regulation clothes and you say regulation words; ‘<em>I dunno’ </em> or ‘<em>I duncare</em>.’ Tall poppies get beheaded. </p><p>“I’ll help myself, then.” Even at rest, 250 keeps one hand on his hip. He has a modified version of the regulation snub-nose blaster. It's scuffed, brown and ugly from its long service. God knows <em> how </em> he was allowed to keep it, must have pulled enough strings to knit a sweater. You feel strangely wrong-footed—in spite of, or maybe <em> because </em> you technically outrank this man. Troopers nowadays are mostly greenhorns or vets. You’re caught somewhere in the middle, too old to be shiny, too young to have seen real battle. </p><p>250 is a lot chattier in his element. “When’s your next leave due?” </p><p>“Four months and twelve days.”  </p><p>“Got anything planned?” </p><p>“I’m gonna go to the butcher’s—straight from the spaceport—buy a dozen steaks, <em> and have a barbecue—</em>” You stop short, embarrassed by your own fervour, and the <em> mundanity </em> of it—but half a cycle of eating dehydrated and rehydrated food will do that to you. “How ‘bout you?”</p><p>250 makes a dismissive sound. “Ages off.” The baccy migrates from cheek to cheek. When he speaks again, his tone is fond, almost in spite of himself. “My old man was a shit cook. Everything he made was drier than a Tatooine nun<em> . </em>” </p><p>“My family doesn't suffer quite as much.”</p><p>“You got kids, eh?” </p><p>“Two. A boy and girl.” Even after all this time, it still makes your throat close up for a brief moment.</p><p>250 gauges your face and does some mental arithmetic. “In school yet?” </p><p>“Yeah, grades 9 and 5. They’re real bright. Teachers all say so… must take after the missus, ‘cause they sure as hell don’t get it from me—You won’t believe the stuff my daughter can write. Last week, she got her story published in the school paper.” </p><p>“About what?”</p><p>“Oh, ice fishing. We went there the last time I got leave.” </p><p>“Huh...dint know you could do that. What’s wrong with the freezer?” </p><p>The joke isn’t funny, but it’s so unexpected you laugh like it is. </p><p>250 lifts a E-22 off the rack and cocks it, testing the heft and aim. He goes through the motions like clockwork, chewing his baccy meditatively. </p><p>“Do you have kids?” </p><p>250 barks a sharp laugh. “Do I<em> look </em> the type?” </p><p>“There’s all sorts,” you reply diplomatically. </p><p>He replaces the gun with a soft ‘<em>tssk’ </em>that is barely picked up by his vocoder. “Hand me the E11 behind you—not that one, further left.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>You’ve never seen a Mandalorian fight before. And you never want to ever again.</p><p>The Moff had been counting on the Mandalorian to be rash and emotionally compromised, and he was right. But the Mando was not leading this operation: Bo-Katan Kryze was. Bo-Katan had terrorised the galaxy for the better part of two decades. Her hatred of the Empire was matched only by her savviness. And rats never bite the same poison twice. </p><p><em> (Your squad is waiting in Bay 6, ears cocked for updates. Next thing you know, Captain Slaw was snapping terse orders to move out, </em>immediately<em>. Bo-Katan had suddenly called for a retreat. Squad 2 and 5 had managed to cut them off at Bay 4, just before the hanger, but they needed backup. Stat.  </em></p><p><em>Your squad gets to the doorway, but no one makes it through. Because right at that moment, in rolls a little silver ball of death, beeping and twinkling merrily. Y</em><em>ou don’t even have time to scream. Next thing you know, you’re twelve meters across the room, thrown back by the force of the explosion, arm twisted awkwardly beneath you.</em> Can’t breath<em>. You don’t remember getting back up, but you must have, because you’re falling down again. It’s so hard to walk, the room is spinning and you keep tripping over bodies</em>—Blaster. Where is your blaster—<em>You take cover by the wall, hunkering down as low as you can go. Shots fly past, so close you feel the heat. The gun in your hand is unfamiliar, but it shoots just fine. Muzzles flash around you and Captain Slaw screams orders into your earpiece. </em></p><p>
  <em> You see it faintly on the HUD: a silver streak moving in and out of the smoke. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The Mandalorian is a man. You are sure of it now. It runs like a man; it falls like man; it jerks backwards with each punch of blaster fire like a man. But every time it goes down, it rises to its feet again, slowly and painfully and as inexorable as the rising tide, like a demon, a one-man phalanx.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It fights like it has nothing left to lose.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Your HUD flickers as it struggles to compensate in the firefight. Bright enough to aim, dim enough not to permanently blind you. Troopers scattered by the explosion get caught in the crossfire. It was unavoidable. The Mando hugs them as closely as a brother, at first under the impression that Captain Slaw would avoid friendly fire, then simply to use them as meatshields. Their shadows jerk like fish on a line before collapsing in a smoking heap. Did any of those shots come from you? You can’t be sure, and you can’t stop. Your finger is locked on the trigger.  </em>
</p><p><em> It’s quickly apparent you have the superior numbers and firepower. Suddenly, the Mandalorian switches tactics and makes a break for the west corridor. Your squad follows, only to realise—too late—that it was a tactical retreat. </em>How did it get the ship’s plans?<em> Once inside, the doors are jammed. And just like that, you're forced into a choke point. </em></p><p>
  <em> Here’s the thing about choke points: it doesn’t matter if you have 10 men or 10,000. If they are forced to run three at a time down a 30m corridor with one the galaxy's most deadly sharp-shooters on one end, the result is going to be the same: a bloodbath.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Captain Slaw didn’t order you to pin him down and wait for the techies to unlock the doors so you could flank the Mando. No, he ordered you to charge.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And it worked.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The funny thing is, in the end, the bodies piled up so high you guys were able to use them as cover. No, it’s not funny at all, but you can’t stop laughing.) </em>
</p><p>You’re still laughing in the med-bay, as a droid applies bacta to your broken wrist. (That's strange, you don't remember breaking a wrist). It stares at you with indifferent curiosity. You switch off your commlink, shaking silently inside your armour. It takes two tranquillisers to make it through the debriefing that follows. </p><p>The Mandalorian is in the brig. Soon it will be interrogated and executed. During the chaos, the terrorist posse managed to shoot their way back to the hanger. They were at least smart enough not to stick around. So much for loyalty. </p><p>When you check the HUD’s clock you're surprised to discover that the whole fight only lasted 24 minutes from start to finish. That's how long it took to kill 63 people. Less time than a soap opera. Why does it feel like the whole day? It feels like you spent your entire life out there, but at the same time, you cannot recall a single second of it.  </p><p>Your memory has blurred into the blaster in your hand, the smell of cooked meat, and a vague understanding that this was the most gut-wrenching terror you have ever experienced.</p><p>God, the smell. It won’t go away. It’s like bacon hitting a hot skillet. ‘<em>Pah-hiss!’  </em>That rich, fatty smell, <em> (like a lazy morning, your wife humming in the kitchen) </em> most people survive blaster fire —the heat cauterizes the wound—they lie there on the floor and beg you to kill them. The smell. It’s inside your helmet. Crawling up your nose. </p><p>You need a drink. You need a week-long coma. You need to stick your head out of the airlock. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>They take off the Mandalorian’s helmet.</p><p><br/>It’s broadcasted to the entire ship so that everyone can watch.  You’re in the mess with about two hundred other men and women, their heads craned upwards towards the flickering screen. You didn’t get a particularly good view. You’re so far back you have to stand on a table with five other guys. Put your foot right in someone’s kriffing mash, too. </p><p>The firefight has left you with two fist-sized patches of blue right in the middle of your field of vision. They move when you move; when you blink, you can see them imprinted on your eyelids. The med-droid assured you it wasn’t permanent. </p><p>The Mandalorian appears, heralded by curses and jeers. All around you, the voices rise to a deafening crescendo, like a tsunami about to crest, and you are carried along with it. You shout until your throat goes raw. </p><p>The Mandalorian is forced onto its knees in a parody of submission. Its body was a bolt of silver lightning frozen in mid-strike, straining against the restraints. It doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even make a sound.</p><p>Moff Gideon stands before it like a black spear thrust skywards, cape billowing out behind him. He presses his palms to the distinctive T-visor helmet, and slowly, almost tenderly, lifts it from the Mandalorian’s face with all due pomp and circumstance. </p><p>You guess it doesn’t kill them, after all. </p><p>It’s some sort of big taboo, the Moff addresses the crowd in ringing, austere tones. A fate worse than death. It has broken its creed and was no longer considered a warrior. </p><p>It’s just about the dumbest fucking thing you’ve ever heard. Disgust and loathing churn inside of you like magma. You can name a hundred things worse than death, worse than losing some fancy headwear.  </p><p>You wanted to see the Mandalorian pay. You wanted to see it suffer. But what you got is a let down. Stripped of its fancy steel and sophisticated weapons, the Mandalorian is just a man. Two eyes, two ears, a nose and a mouth, pixilated and blue. So ordinary it looks familiar.  </p><p>But it has evil eyes. The cold, pitiless eyes of a killer.  </p><p>You turn away in disgust, grabbing a fistful of napkins on your way out. You don’t even stay for the beat down. You’ve had enough. </p><p>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>A great big thank you to Shirokokuro for being my beta, your advice has been indispensable.</p><p>Feat. A brief homage to this story <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28567977/chapters/70011846">Parallel</a> (This IS the story you're looking for...read it...)</p><p>---</p><p>Edit: Retroactively decided that Moff Gideon doesn't have force powers.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Intermission, feat. pin up boys</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for your enthusiastic reception everyone! Chapter 2 is still in the works, but in the meantime, please enjoy this selection of drawings, as a token of my appreciation. (BTW I re-read the comments whenever I need motivation, and in terms of energy it's like drinking 50 shots of coffee at once.)<br/>--</p>
<p>I'm a very visual person and sketching scenes beforehand helps me write them. Here are some of my best pieces, which I have also cleaned up and turned into promotional material for my own fic.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
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<p>They take off the Mandalorian’s helmet...</p>
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  <em>You’ve never seen a Mandalorian fight before, and you never want to ever again.</em>
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<p>This scene didn't make the cut because it was way too goofy, but it crawled out of the grave and manifested as a short comic. </p>
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<p>250 on shore leave. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>For other sw art, or just come say hi, check out my blog--&gt; https://its-not-a-pen.tumblr.com</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Loose Lips Blow Up Ships</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>My fancast for Cara Dune is Laverne Cox. I have spoken. </p><p>CW: depiction of PTSD</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You’re still seeing blue. </p><p>It’s a lot fainter now and blurry around the edges. Like someone spilt ink on your eyeballs and can’t quite scrub the stain out. The retina damage isn’t bad enough to earn you any rest days, though. Quite the opposite. You’re being worked harder than ever, due to <em> ‘extenuating circumstances’ </em> and a <em> ‘shortage of personnel.’ </em> At least you’re getting paid overtime. </p><p>You wince when you finally take off your helmet. The dorm lights are back to 100%, but it feels more like 200%—another<em> temporary </em> side effect. It helps if you stand with your back to it.  </p><p>You rummage your pockets carefully. The damn thing better not have melted... Your wrist is still stiff as hell, and it makes odd clicking noises if you rotate it too far. </p><p>“Hey, look what I found.” You unwrap the K-Bar with exaggerated slowness, making sure to crumple the foil wrapping extra hard. A sweet, nutty smell fills the dorm, momentarily masking the persistent reek of blaster ozone. The bar’s got <em> real </em> milk and sugar in it—you had to twist quite a few arms, both figuratively and literally. </p><p>Lucky doesn’t answer from his prone position on the bunk. He is curled in on himself like a shrimp, face to the wall, still wearing his helmet and boots. On his pillow, there is a dog-eared bike magazine, one month out of date. </p><p>“Can’t stand these kriffin’ things. It’s like chewing cement.” You wave the dark, lumpy block enticingly. “You want it?” </p><p>“I’m not hungry,” Lucky mutters metallically through the vocoder. </p><p>“Aw, c’mon, kid. I’ve already unwrapped it. We’re gonna get space-ants—”</p><p>“I don’t <em> fucking </em> want it!” Lucky explodes. “Take a <em> fucking </em> hike.”</p><p>The words are out of your mouth before you can stop yourself. “What the hell are you trying to do? <em> Huh? </em> You think starving yourself to death will bring Dave back? <em> Grow the fuck up you ungrateful brat!”  </em></p><p>The silence that follows is so sharp and painful you’re afraid to move. </p><p> “I don’t give a shit,” Lucky whispers dully. It scares you worse than his sudden outburst. </p><p><em> “Fine! Starve then!” </em>You storm out. None of the doors are capable of slamming; your best effort yields an asthmatic wheeze, like an old hound taking it’s dying breath. God, you feel sick. Faces peer out at you from the corridor, but they keep their distance. There is a muffled booming in your ears and your limbs feel leaden, as if you’re walking underwater. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard to breath. </p><p>You flinch when you see something black and sticky coating your palm—but it’s only the <em> kriffing </em> bar. It’s melted in your clenched fist.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“We need to go back.” </p><p>It’s Shand—the ex-assassin—who is the first to make the suggestion. Bo-Katan looks up slowly from the astro-chart she has been pouring over. Is this cold pragmatism, or some latent loyalty rising to the surface? And how will it factor into her own calculations?</p><p>“I agree.” Dune <em> finally </em> stops her pacing. “We can’t run forever.” The ragged gash above her right eye is still weeping blood, mirroring the teardrop-shaped tattoo on her other cheek. The battle aboard the Lightcruiser had severely over-taxed their bacta supply. The dropper had resorted to gluing the wound shut.  </p><p>Unfortunately, being the most heavily wounded hadn’t stopped Dune from wearing down the durasteel flooring—and Bo-Katan’s limited patience. The dropper applies herself to fretting with the same mulish focus she applies to everything. That’s the problem with muscle: they only know how to follow orders.</p><p>“It’s suicide,” Bo-Katan answers calmly, sizing up her opponents. They have proven worthy warriors in battle, but they were still <em> aruetiise </em>. They held no allegiance to her people—or her crusade. “We barely got out alive, and the Slave 1 is flying on one engine. The ship and crew are in no shape to fight.”</p><p>Dune and Shand exchange a brief but communicative look. “Precisely,” Shand answers. “It’s the last thing the Imps will expect.” </p><p>Yes. It’s an easy choice for the <em> assassin </em> and the <em> hired-gun </em> to make. They do not have the fate of a nation resting on their shoulders, the lives of two loyal warriors in their hands, nor a cause worth fighting for. </p><p>“Our power cells will only last us three more jumps.” Shand opens up the ship’s diagnostics, <em> still </em> awash with flashing red warnings. “And we’ll never refuel in time. The minute we drop out of hyperspace, they’ll blow us out of the sky. ” </p><p>Antiquated figure of speech aside, she has a point. A point Bo-Katan has already considered and reconsidered. It’s a choice between the skillet or the coals. </p><p>The jaws of the trap are edging closer. Not for the first time, Bo-Katan finds herself longing for home. Not for any specific place, but for peace and quiet. The adrenaline has long worn off and she feels <em> everything </em>. The dull gnawing of old injuries, the leaden exhaustion in her bones, and the hound called Doubt, howling louder than ever inside her skull. At times like this, the way forward seems so long and dark. But it cannot end here. It will not. </p><p>
  <em> (The party fought their way tooth and nail to the hanger, just in time to make their rendezvous with the Slave 1, which had rematerialized out of hyperspace.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Of course, getting out proved to be much harder than getting in.  </em>
</p><p><em> For three heart-pounding minutes, the Slave 1 was engaged in a vicious dog-fight against several TIE-fighters. Spinning and weaving so violently not even the gyroscopic deck could compensate for the G-forces, which seemed to hammer them like blows. Alarms blared. Plasma turned the hull red-hot. Then came a sickening screech, as an unlucky shot destroyed the main engine—Bo-Katan had recited the </em> Resol’nare <em> and braced herself for death—when suddenly the stars through the porthole stretched into long lines of light—and then they were floating in the calm, white embrace of hyperspace.   </em></p><p>
  <em> The rescue party sat there in exhausted silence, with no strength left to even feel relief.  </em>
</p><p><em> They hopped out somewhere around the Medi Constellation. But there was no chance to even catch their breath. Not 15 minutes later, some hidden security system aboard the Slave 1 alerted them to a new energy signature—multiple ships about to exit hyperspace </em> , right on top of them <em> . The battered ship and crew scrambled to make their second jump, just in time to avoid the five TIE-fighters that suddenly materialised to their left.  </em></p><p>
  <em> Re-entering the featureless void, Bo-katan found herself harbouring a begrudging respect for the clone bounty hunter and his crude—but powerful—ship. A man like him was not to be underestimated again.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “We’re being tracked,” Axe informed her tersely, from the cockpit.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> During the fight, the ship had taken flak from what he assumed were frag-grenades. Small, fleet bombs that had rained hail after hail of metal shrapnel against the hull. He had paid them no mind at the time, since they only penetrated the epidermal armour, and he was preoccupied with a rapidly failing engine.    </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “That’s why they let us go,” he swore softly. “They want us to lead them to a Covert.”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Knowing is half the battle, Axe,” Bo-Katan reassured him.  </em>
</p><p><em> “I’m sorry, </em> alor. <em> My shooting—" </em></p><p><em> “Your shooting saved our lives. Eyes forward, </em> ad <em> . It’s not over yet.”) </em></p><p>Such was the way of things. The hunters were now the prey. Their injured ship limped through hyperspace, while the crew licked their wounds and desperately pooled their meagre resources. The plan had rapidly switched from siege, to survival.  </p><p>“There are only 13 manned TIE-fighters,” Shand presses on. “Three we shot down. Five are in pursuit. That means there are only five left guarding the Lightcruiser.”</p><p>“Four,” Dune corrects her. “I tossed a few detonators on my way out.” Perhaps the brawn has brains, after all. </p><p>“Once we’re out of hyperspace, it will take them at least 10 minutes to track us,” Shand continues, emboldened. “That’s enough time for the extraction. The ship’s pre-Empire too, they won’t spot us if we keep our distance. Once we have the Asset on board, our chances of escaping would improve exponentially. At the very least, they won’t disintegrate us on sight.” </p><p>Dune visibly bristles at the thought of the Asset being used as a bargaining chip but wisely bites down whatever angry retort she has prepared. Her zealot friend is not the only sentimental one, it seems. Another detail to be filed away for later. </p><p>Bo-Katan weights her options. “Your entire plan hinges on reacquiring the Asset. What if they’ve been captured and don’t make the rendezvous?” </p><p>“What if they haven’t?” Dune challenges. “Din will find a way.” <em> Ah. </em>The name of the unknown warrior. Potential ammunition to be used later. </p><p>“There is too much at stake here to pin it on <em> wishful thinking—” </em> </p><p>“He’s a Mandalorian,” Dune says quietly but with conviction. “I know that much.” She is so close Bo-Katan can see the tattoo of the Rebel insignia on her cheek. Their eyes are locked, searching for something neither of them quite understands. “And I know he has lost <em> everything </em> that was ever important to him. There is <em> nothing </em> in the world he won’t do, and <em> nowhere </em> he won’t go. If he has even a single fighting chance in Hell, he’s gonna follow it through until the end.” </p><p>They’re interrupted by a loud clattering beneath their feet, and then a mechanical whirring as the gyroscopic deck re-aligns itself. The hatch swings open. From it emerges the head of Koska Reeves, like a hero of yore rising from the Underworld. Her braided hair is saturated with sweat and a strong, acrid smell rises from her armour. </p><p>She catches the flask of water Bo-katan tosses to her one-handed, and hoists up the toolkit with the other. Both arms are stained black to the elbow. </p><p>“Report?” </p><p>“Main engine’s completely dead, but it’s not gonna blow.” Koska pauses to take a long draft. “I’ve patched up the fuel leak and siphoned off what’s left to the auxiliary. That’ll give us an extra hour of hard flying. Two-and-a-half if we’re cruising.” </p><p>Bo-Katan smiles grimly. “That is good news.” </p><p>“Oh yeah. Lifeday and the Equinox all rolled into one.” The young lieutenant tips the rest of the flask over her head and leaps spryly onto the deck. “Fennec, show me where you keep the guns—I left my Westar at the Moff’s house.”  </p><p>“Never fear,” Bo-Katan replies. “We’re going back to get it.” </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>You stumble upon 250 a while later, he’s been wandering around for God-knows how long, knee-deep in a concussion<em> , and then </em>he had the misfortune of running into Lieutenant Mace. God-knows how he managed to incite Mace’s ire...Probably for not saluting hard enough or some other BS reason. He’s not wearing his helmet, but you recognise him by the familiar battle-scarred snub-nose hanging at his hip. Mace was busy tormenting the poor bastard by making him recite his TK number forwards and backwards. </p><p>“Too sloppy, <em> again!” </em></p><p>“… 0-5-2-0.”</p><p>His voice is as jumpy as a live wire without the vocoder to flatten it out. He’s staring wide-eyed at a point just beyond Mace’s left shoulder, enunciating each number like he’s trying to read something far away. His armour is scorched. His helmet tucked awkwardly under his armpit, with a dent in it the size of a small mudhorn egg. He shouldn’t even be on his feet.   </p><p>“Lieutenant Mace, Sir!” some idiot interrupts. You realise it was yourself. </p><p>Mace turns around slowly, smoothing down the front of his medaled chest. You watch his nose twitch like a tooka presented with a fresh steak.</p><p><em> “What?” </em>he demands, in that dangerous, oily voice of his. </p><p>You snap him your sharpest salute, and quickly recite some BS. “Sir, we received a new ISB file concerning the refinery incident on Morak. Requesting sign-off for the data transfer—” </p><p> “These trivial matters are beneath the Lieutenant’s concern, Trooper,” the bronzed tones of a familiar voice cuts through the air.</p><p>You breathe a sigh of relief. Thank the Small Gods, it’s Sarge.</p><p>Sergeant Auger clicks her heels crisply. “Lieutenant, I have an urgent security matter to discuss with you.” To the two of you, she says sharply, “march!” </p><p>You get the hint. You salute once more and immediately haul ass, towing 250 along behind you.  </p><p>“Stay close and keep your head down,” you hiss, trying to look busy while simultaneously keeping a firm grip on 250, who is trying half-heartedly to wiggle away. He doesn’t get far since you are—figuratively and physically—the bigger man. Once the air is clear of Mace, you circle back to meet the Sarge. </p><p>“Sarge, permission to take TK 0250 to the med bay.” </p><p>“On what grounds?” </p><p>“Concussion, Sarge.” You nod meaningfully at the dented bucket. </p><p>Sarge peers into his eyes, checking his pupils. “What’s your name, son?”</p><p>“Walter Kelpy, Ma’am—Sarge.” 250 trips over his words like an uneven staircase, staring at the Sarge like she’s the muzzle of a loaded blaster. </p><p>“What day is it?” </p><p>He hesitates. “The 10th, Sarge.” </p><p>“Where are you right now?” </p><p>“Moff Gideon’s Lightcruiser, Sarge.” </p><p>Sarge steps back, lips pressed into a thin line. “He’s fine. Biggs, take Kelpy to the armoury and then go back to work.”</p><p>She <em>cannot</em> be serious. “Sergeant Auger—” </p><p>“We need every man on deck,” the Sarge interrupts you, voice hard. “Hop to, gentlemen. The Empire is grateful for your service.” </p><p>A rebuttal is on the tip of your tongue, but you swallow it down like another bitter pill.</p><p>“Well, Kelpy,” you say afterwards, trying for levity, “you’re damn lucky your melon’s still in one piece.” </p><p>Kelpy shrugs, but you catch the brief, resentful look in his eyes. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em> In the past... </em>
</p><p><em> Bo was five years old when she left Mandalore for the first time. Far too old to cry. But it didn’t stop her from lying down on the landing ramp in silent protest. A few moments later Sat’ika joined her in solidarity…but only after making sure Buhi and Bubu were exasperated rather than </em> actually <em> angry. Sat’ika never did anything that would upset the wagon, and it irked Bo. But she was glad for her company, all the same. The tarmac was really, really hot. And it was starting to get pretty boring.   </em></p><p>
  <em> “Governor Kryze, your daughters are, uh—”  </em>
</p><p><em> “Why don’t you bring them a bottle and nappy, Kote." </em><em> Buhi answered loudly in a sugary tone. “If they want to act like </em> adiik, <em> they can be </em> adiik."</p><p><em> “Yes, </em> alor<em>."</em><em> Kote chuckled into her gauntlet.  </em> </p><p>
  <em> The dirty traitor! Kote used to be her friend, because she told funny jokes and let Bo shoot bottles with her blaster. None of the other kids at school had their own bodyguard, and it made her feel very special. Well not anymore! Bo hated her too! She hated the stupid sun, she hated the planet of Kalevala, and she hated Buhi most of all!  </em>
</p><p> <em>A tall shadow fell over them as if summoned. “ </em> Satine. Bo-Katan. <em> Get up</em><em>.</em><em>” Buhi commanded sternly, using her Governor-voice instead of her Buir-voice. “I have indulged you for long enough.”   </em></p><p><em> Sat’ika quickly climbed to her feet, dusting off her robes. </em> Typical! <em> But Bo was a true </em> Mando’ade <em> and stuck to her guns. “I don’t wanna go to Kalevala and I don’t wanna leave all my friends behind!” she said loudly and clearly, the way law-makers in parliament do, even though she could feel tears starting to come out of her eyes. “You never ask what I want! You just tell me to do things and </em>it’s not fair!”</p><p><em> Buhi went very, very still for a moment, the way she did when she gets angry. But instead of yelling, she just sighed. “Kalevala is my old home, </em> ad’ika, <em> ” she murmured, kneeling down beside Bo. “I felt the same way, many years ago, when your sister, Bubu and I left for Mandalore. Leaving behind the familiar for the unknown can be very frightening, but it is also full of gifts.” She smiled as she said it. Bo-Katan was born on Mandalore.  </em></p><p>
  <em> “But you like Mandalore, now, don’t you, Buhi?” Sat’ika asked anxiously. She was only three when she left Kalevala—much too little to remember anything. Just like Bo, Mandalore was the only home she had ever known.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I do.” </em>
</p><p><em> “Then why don’t we stay?” Sat’ika pleaded. “You can get someone else to be Governor!”  </em> </p><p><em> “I am the most qualified person for the job</em> <em>.</em> <em>” Buhi explained matter-of-factly, as the sun is yellow and the planet round. “House Kryze are leaders. It is our birthright. Our duty is to serve the people. How can I turn them away when they ask for my help?” </em></p><p>
  <em> The children accepted her words without question. At that age, every parent’s word was law. Governor, or no Governor.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Buhi regarded their crestfallen faces gravely. “If the two of you are so set on staying, I will not stop you. You can take the next shuttle back with Kote and live with Babuir.” </em>
</p><p> <em>She was serious. Bo and Sat’ika mulled it over. “No...” they answered one by one. “I don’t want that.” </em></p><p><em> “Then you see, home is not a place. Home is your family.” Buir folded the two of them into an embrace. Her arms seemed to encircle the whole world. “I need you, </em> ad’ika. <em> That is why I want you both to come with me. As long as we stay together, we can make this place our home.”  </em></p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>There is a dull, bone-deep ache in your left wrist like a feral tooka. It gnaws with a vengeance, and it comes and goes according to its own whims. When it comes, all you can do is take deep breaths and wait for it to go. Clenching your hand around the butt of your blaster helps—but only because it's no worse than doing nothing. <em>  'You are fully operational,' </em> the med-droid said. <em> 'The pain is only psychosomatic.' </em>You've learned it by rote. </p><p>In an effort to distract yourself, you try to make small-talk with 250—or is it Kelpy now? It goes over as well as a lead balloon. Icebreaking isn’t your forte—outside of an actual pond and sledgehammer. <em> (Your wife could make anyone smile. You wish you had her skill—the way she flirts from person to person like a flutterby in a meadow.) </em> But in your defense, you can’t exactly bitch about stuff like the weather <em> in space</em>. </p><p>Kelpy's responses—when he chooses to answer at all—are strictly monosyllabic. It’s also quickly apparent that, concussion aside, he simply does not recognize you. </p><p>“Your CO's Sergeant Hiver, right?" </p><p>"Yes." </p><p>“Is he OK?"</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>It’s stupid to feel offended. So you’re not. You and Kelpy were two ships passing. Taking someone to the weapon’s bay isn’t exactly first date material. Hell, you spoke for 10 minutes, tops, and half of it was trite BS about laser-sights and kick-back. He probably remembers the E-22 better than you.  </p><p>“Why’d you catch flak from Mace?” your mouth keeps shoveling, in an attempt to cover up your own embarrassment. “—The Lieutenant,” you clarify, in response to another one of Kelpy’s blank stares. </p><p>“He said my hair was too long,” the man answered at length. </p><p>The hair in question was dark brown and stiff with dried sweat. The back was two centimeters below the collar; the front was long enough to fall over his brow. A sane and lenient human-being might rank it ‘permissible’ on the military scale of ‘good’ to ‘disgraceful eyesore.’ But paired with Kelpy’s general air of unshaven scruffiness and nerf-in-the-headlights stare, it might as well have been a clamouring dinner-bell. </p><p>“Sounds about right,” you scowl darkly. “Mace’s court-martialed guys for less…Captain Slaw and the rest are just as bad. Keep your bucket on, and stay out of their way.” </p><p>Kelpy raises his eyebrows in a silent—and rather petulant<em> ‘no shit.’ </em>   He is in his early 40s, as you first reckoned—albeit less grizzled than expected. Despite the rough rasp in his voice, he has a surprisingly frank and open face. Not exactly <em> dim</em>, but not the kind of guy you'd expect to win at sarbacc, either. And you wonder, a little unkindly; <em> 'This is the guy who survived Endor?' </em></p><p>A shrill beeping sounds in your ear as the comm goes off. <em> Officer's frequency</em>. Muscle memory makes you reach for your vambrace—before you realize it is actually coming from Kelpy. He is so slow to react you end up picking it up for him. </p><p><em> 'Sorry, Sarge' </em> is on the tip of your tongue. But the moment your eyes focus on the small holo-figure, your blood goes cold, and the words wither up. It's not the Sarge. </p><p> The pain in your wrist flares up anew, cold and sharp. The taste of ozone floods your mouth. Your fist is clamped down on your blaster in a death's grip. A faint tremor—like an electrical current—is running down your arm. </p><p> "TK 0250, report immediately to the gunroom," Captain Slaw commands. </p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“We’re burning through our fuel faster than anticipated,” Axe informs Bo-Katan over a private channel, worry colouring his voice in a way he would not permit to show anyone else. “I’ve already powered off all the non-essential hardware—” </p><p>“Turn off life-support. Then let it cycle for 10 minutes, every 50 minutes.” </p><p>“Will do, <em> alor </em>,” Axe sighs, “but it won’t help much—they discontinued these Firespray-class ships for a reason.”</p><p>There is a <em> beep </em> as Koska joins the channel. “Didn’t the factory blow up or something?” She says. </p><p>“Well,<em> yeah </em>…” Axe chuckles, “but also because they’re unprofitable gas-guzzlers. All power and zero fuel efficiency—don’t tell Fett I said that.”</p><p>“As long as you don’t mention what I did to the engine, <em> ner vod. </em>”</p><p>They were at the age when their fears could still be buried under laughter. The reckless optimism of youth both blinded them and shielded them. </p><p>Bo-Katan switched off the comm. It was painful to listen to them talk. It conjured up the ghosts of a kinder, happier time. Of idyllic childhoods and easy comradery. Now all her memories were soaked with the bitterness of loss. </p><p>Rage, hatred, vengeance. Those, she preferred. Those, she could sharpen and wield. Grief only made her grieve. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>"Turn left." You order curtly, without breaking stride. Momentum is the only thing you have. If you stop to think for too long, your common sense will eventually win out. Kelpy keeps pace beside you like a mute shadow. </p><p>You pass the mess hall.<em> (You don't need to be there.) </em> You pass the wardroom. <em> (Just tell him to follow the main vent-line. The directions are so easy not even an idiot could get lost.) </em> You don't care what happens: It's none of your business. </p><p>The doors of the gunroom loom up before you. If you are about to scratch your skin off, Kelpy is nearly catatonic. His eyes warily circle around and around, like a wild animal running circles in a pen. With nowhere to go, he seems to retreat inwards, as if steeling his very skin against the world. </p><p>"Hey, it's gonna be OK." Your voice startles him. Hostility and confusion grapple on his face. Of course, he sees nothing but his own reflection in your visor. </p><p>The doors open a soft whoosh. You stand at attention and salute. "Captain Slaw, Sir. TK 7719 reporting, Sir." </p><p>"TK 0250 reporting, Sir." </p><p>It's so quiet you can hear the extractor fans. There are no whirling mouse-droids or junior officers milling about with their insta-caff. The gunroom is entirely empty except for Captain Slaw, who is sitting at an oblong table with a glass of water and a data pad. </p><p>He draws back his lips, revealing two rows of straight, white teeth. "At ease, men." </p><p>There is something deeply unnerving about Slaw that not even Mace on his worst day could match. Mace was the little boy who liked to pull wings off flies; pure, uncomplicated malice. Slaw was a great, yawning pit. The thing he wears as a face is just a mask. Standing too close gives you something akin to moral vertigo.</p><p>"Sit down, Trooper," Slaw orders Kelpy. You are already forgotten. "I've got a few questions to ask you. This won't take long." </p><p>"Yes, sir." Kelpy’s movements are stiff, but his voice is surprisingly steady. The dented helmet is placed on the table beside him.</p><p>Slaw's commlink beeps twice, signaling an incoming transmission, but as Captain, he has the leisure to ignore it. "Do you know why you're here?"</p><p>"No, Sir."  </p><p>"It concerns the Mandalorian." </p><p>You can’t see the expression on Kelpy's face, but it makes Slaw's lips curl back even further, exposing a line of pink gums. "You see, son, in order for him to access the coordinates to the Lightcruiser, he would have needed to access an ISB computer. <em> And </em> he would have needed help from the inside."  </p><p>Prompted by some unspoken cue, two figures clad in black amour step into view. They move in perfect synchrony, more machine than men.<em> Deathtroopers. </em> Are you breathing too loudly, or is it the sudden, deathly silence? It feels like the whole room is holding its breath. </p><p>"Now, I don't need to tell you that aiding and abetting the enemy, withholding information, or hindering an investigation, is treason," Slaw continues in a conversational tone. "Do you have anything to make a clean breast of before we begin?"</p><p>"No, sir." There is a stranger sitting where Keply used to be. His voice is perfectly calm, and there is steel in his back. You think he may survive this encounter yet, if he doesn't lose his nerve. </p><p>"You accessed a terminal at 1300 hours on the 6th. Is that correct?"</p><p>"Yes, Sir." </p><p>"What did you search for?"</p><p>"I don't remember, Sir. It was a routine procedure." </p><p>Your graze shoots back up to the Deathtroopers. The sheen on their armour is pristine. They do not move a muscle. Do they need Slaw to give them the order to shoot? Or will they act on their own discretion? </p><p>Captain Slaw clicks his tongue. It resembles sympathy. "Yes, memory can be such a slippery thing, especially under duress. Something on your mind, Trooper?" </p><p>"No, Sir. I was acting under Sergeant Hiver's order's. He will have the records, Sir." </p><p><br/>"Sergeant Hiver is dead." </p><p><br/>"Then my squadron can verify it, Sir."</p><p>The silence stretches on, growing tauter and tauter until it is about to snap. </p><p>Captain Slaw switches on the commlink, and opens the transmission he received a few minutes earlier. You finally find the strength to tear your eyes away from the silent, black forms of the Deathtroopers. </p><p>"Come in."</p><p>"All clear, Sir,” comes the reply. “We have confirmation that the file transfer requested by TK 0250 on the 6th was authorized, over."</p><p>"Copy that. Dismissed." </p><p>Slaw switches off the commlink. "Well, Trooper," he says languidly, "looks like you were telling the truth." </p><p>"Yes, Sir," Kelpy replies, utterly without inflection. Whatever you’re feeling, it’s not relief. It’s like the pit of your stomach has dropped out. And the worst is still not over. Slaw has not dismissed you yet. </p><p>Slaw bares his teeth again. "Tell me about your time on Endor, Trooper." </p><p>"There's not much to say, Sir." Kelpy hesitates, the first time he has done so. "You probably know more about it than I do, Sir." </p><p>"Yes. But I want to hear it from you." </p><p>"It was a long, hard fight, Sir… And we lost many good men. But it was all worth it. For the glory of the Empire." A textbook answer. You let out the breath you didn't realize you were holding. Memories like that are dark and filled with pitfalls; it’s hard to predict how someone will react. </p><p>"Heroes, all of them." Captain Slaw nods approvingly. His attention has already migrated to the datapad. There was nothing he liked better than a good, dead hero. "You have served the Empire well, Trooper, and you will be rewarded for it. I have a new assignment for you. No doubt, you are eager to prove your loyalty, especially after that <em> unfortunate misunderstanding</em>." Slaw's gaze is hypnotic; he very rarely blinks. "Not everyone is as lenient as I."</p><p>"Thank you, Sir." </p><p>With a few taps of the stylus, Slaw transfers a new file onto Kelpy's HUD. There is a ball of snakes writhing inside you. Kelpy does not react in any visible way, but you see his fist clench under the table.</p><p>"I'm sure this will be fitting work for someone of your skills," Slaw murmurs, as if soothing a small animal. <em> "Dismissed.” </em></p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“We need to contact him. To tell him we’re coming.” Dune reaches for the comm, only to find it safely sequestered in Bo-Katan’s palm. <em> So predictable.  </em></p><p>“Any foreign transmission will be intercepted,” Bo-Katan explains and manages to bury <em> most </em>of her condescension. “We must maintain radio silence until the last moment.” </p><p>“15 minutes is not enough time for him to get out,” Dune says through gritted teeth. “There must be another way—” </p><p>“If he is as good as you say, it will be enough,” Bo-Katan replies. She can’t resist turning the dropper’s words back on her. “Afterall, we must have<em> faith </em> in your friend.” </p><p>Dune’s expression is so thunderous Bo-Katan feels Koska square her stance beside her...But the dropper does no more than nod stiffly in acquiescence. </p><p>Shand speaks up. “How long until the pick-up?”</p><p>“47 hours,”  Bo-Katan replies. “No more, no less.” </p><p>“That’s not long enough...” Shand mutters, while Dune all but shouts, “He’ll be dead by then!” </p><p>This insubordination annoys her beyond words. The casual disrespect and a lack of discipline that one would not find even in the greenest cadet. Do they think she conjured up these numbers from thin air? It is an impossible balancing act of risk and probability: conserving their fuel; catching the Empire unawares; the logistics of <em> Din </em> bypassing security. It is an impossible equation and she has <em> forced </em> an outcome. </p><p><em> Sith. Jedi. Empire. Republic</em>. They all have one thing in common. They give with one hand, and take with the other. And they always take more than they give. </p><p>It was her own weakness that led to her people’s downfall. A painful scar on her conscience. The last time she put her faith in outsiders, it cost her everything. The monster that killed her sister and usurped her Captain. The clone army that destroyed her homeworld. The Jedi that manipulated and abandoned her.</p><p>There will be no weaknesses this time. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Damn it all. And damn the sick bastard to hell. Slaw knew everything from the very start. He was toying with you. The whole pointless, <em> terrifying </em> ordeal was just a game. There was never any point to it. It was all just to watch you squirm. </p><p>You miss the turn, and Kelpy nearly runs into you. </p><p>Ever since the battle, it feels like something has snapped inside you. Something that is hanging on by a just thread. Your breathing is starting to echo oddly inside the black space between your helmet and visor. Loud. Irregular.<em> (Static in your earpiece, as you wait with your squad in Bay 6— ) </em></p><p>Regulations be damned. You fumble violently at the catch and pull off the bucket before you start seeing the muzzle-flashes again. When that happens, the whole thing will play before your eyes like a reel of holo-film, and then, you’re back <em> there </em> again. Trapped against the wall. Paralyzed with fear. </p><p>You’ve worked up a sweat without realising it. The air is unpleasantly chilly and smells like disinfectant. <em> Only disinfectant. And nothing else. </em> Is this psychosomatic too? The smell? Will it haunt you for the rest of your life? </p><p>“Try biting your tongue.” It takes you a second to remember Kelpy is still following you. “Bite your tongue,” he repeats slowly, as if speaking to a child. “Focus on the pain.” </p><p>For the next few minutes, you gnaw the inside of your mouth bloody, as a man you barely know reels you back from the teetering precipice. He talked the whole while, low and slow, like the background hum of an engine. More words than you thought he could possibly have in him, although you cannot for the life of you remember what he said. </p><p>How long did it go on for? A few seconds? An hour? When <em> that thing </em> happens, time seems to warp and run like ink on blotting-paper. In some ways the uncertainty is worse than the horror. It makes you doubt your own sanity, the one thing on the entire ship you can truly call your own. </p><p>When it’s over, you realise you love him. The way a drowning man loves flotsam. The way a falling man loves the ledge and his own bloody fingernails.  </p><p>After you arrive at the armoury, Kelpy puts on a fresh helmet, and leaves without a word. And all you can think about is that he must have learnt this through experience. And you hope he had someone there to talk him through it. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em> In the past… </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The Mandalorian walked the deck of his ship like a metronome. 10 steps forwards, and then all the way back again. Each step is light and even. The child slept on, cradled in his arms.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>His cuirass was unfastened. It sat upright on a nearby bench, like the headless busts of ancient times. The Mandalorian turned to look at it from time to time, drawn to it in the manner of a lodestone. The cold, blue steel glimmered reassuringly in the glow of the evening, always within arm’s reach yet always much too far away. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The air within was as damp and soupy as the air outside, but thankfully, it no longer reeked of brine. Inside the familiar carapace of his ship, the enormity of his decision was easier to bear.   </em>
</p><p><em>T</em> <em>he first time he had held the child, he had been surprised by his strength. The bony, sturdiness in the little body. He had expected babies to be fat, soft and pliant. Not this fierce, wiggling mass, barely contained by his swaddling cloth. </em></p><p>
  <em>Everything about him had been fascinating to behold. The shiny, dark-brown eyes. Tiny fingers, balled into fists. A wizened little face, which had contorted into such an ear-piercing squawk, it almost startled the Mandalorian into dropping him.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He still had so much to learn, and so little time to learn it.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>But he would make time. The Mandalorian had spent so many years just surviving. Eyes to the ground, looking only far enough to know where to put his feet. Now the future had been opened up before him, vast and bright, like the sky after a thunderstorm.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Was this what it would always feel like? This feeling that borders on pain, the knowledge that he would have to live the rest of his life with his heart wandering outside of his chest.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>How strange that here, on this alien planet, with another small heart beating alongside his own, time and space felt the thinnest. Rising out of the fog of memory, he saw the faces of his family. Mama. Baba. Buir. He could feel the warmth of their smiles, like the first rays of the morning sun climbing over the horizon. They were so close, as if he could reach out and touch them yet separated by a divide no ship could ever cross.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The exposed surface of his flak vest was scratchy and unpadded. It smelled none too fresh, either. But his child did not seem to mind. He slept on, in the dreamless, unfathomable sleep of the very young. </em>
</p><p><em>Jango Fett bowed his head and whispered into his ear. </em> “Ni kyr'tayl gai sa'ad.”</p><p>
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  <br/>
</p><hr/><p> </p><p>The present day…</p><p>There is no need to film this. A point has already been made; the final <em> coup de grace </em> is nothing more than a formality. Not to mention it would be dangerous for this errant terrorist to occupy more of the troop’s thoughts than it already does. Martyrdom could be lethal in the right hands. <em> Obscurity </em>is the only safe resting place. </p><p>“—afterwards, strip him of his armour and have it smelted down.”</p><p>The two Stormtroopers raise their blasters in silent unison and take aim. </p><p>“Forgive me for my lack of decorum, Mandalorian—oh, I beg your pardon: <em> Din Djarin,</em>” Moff Gideon continues with a gracious genuflection, “but time is rather scarce, and I <em> do </em> have more important matters to attend.” The Moff sweeps out of the cell without a backwards glance, black cape streaming out behind him. </p><p>The blast-doors close and two shots ring out in quick succession.  </p><p>
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</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>“Making the decision to have a child - it is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body. ”<br/>- Elizabeth Stone</p><p>Mandalorian translations:<br/>(nc) non-canon stuff that I made up</p><p>Adiik- Baby<br/>Ad’ika- A young child<br/>Alor- Boss/Leader<br/>Ad- Child eg; lad, lassie<br/>Ner Vod- Dear brother/sibling</p><p>Buir- Parent<br/>Babuir- grandparent<br/>Bubu, Buhi - (nc) nicknames for differentiating between parents<br/>Ni kyr'tayl gai sa'ad - "I know your name as my child" Mandalorian adoption vows. (nc) also spoken at the birth of a child. </p><p>Aruetiise- Outsiders<br/>Mando’ade- A Mandalorian</p><p>Resol'nare - The six tenets of Mandalorian culture. (nc) a prayer or oath that is recited before important occasion.<br/>Kote- Glory nc) Given name, or surname of Mandalorian origin. Variants include: Kotta (Huttese) Coby, Cody (Basic), Qita, Qiti (Twi’leki) </p><p>Kryze is a old Mandalorian family that hails from the planet of Kalevala. Everything else is stuff I made up.</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A great big thank you to Shirokokuro for being my beta, your advice has been indispensable.</p><p>Feat. A brief homage to this story <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28567977/chapters/70011846">Parallel</a> (This IS the story you're looking for...read it...)</p><p>---</p><p>Edit: Retroactively decided that Moff Gideon doesn't have force powers.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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